Snow Musings and a Poem

Phil finally made it home from working in Colorado at almost midnight last night. He came bearing mail (hooray!), walking on the surface of the snow “like Legolas” (this was Phil’s simile. I am not enough of a Tolkien expert to remember much of Legolas other than that he’s one of the good guys).

Virginia snow amuses us. Colorado snow never supported our weight, but here in Virginia, this snow crusted over, with about three inches of ice over eight inches of powder. This makes snow walking quite interesting, as every step is a mystery: will I sink in? Or will a large section of ice collapse, leaving me stranded on a mini iceberg? Or will I trip lightly and easily on the surface? Each step is different, and, thus, exciting!

We spent today catching up, talking about everything from oxen to chicken pens, from pig breeding to pasture. He spent the rest of his time working “for pay,” and so did I.

And the snow began again. I’ve read that usually central Virginia gets about 11 inches of snow a year. This year we’re already over 50.

Now for something completely different: an indulgence in poetry. About a year ago, my sister and I started to talk about poetry. I was an English and humanities major, and wondered aloud what my 100 favorite poems would be. She, an art major, looked startled and said that she couldn’t think of a single poem that she liked. So for some weeks I emailed her a few poems a day, with my comments on why I liked them. We reached 80 before I realized that the last 20 would be fillers—they didn’t reach the same level of greatness-for-Amy. (Tangentially, this is part of what I hate about books with titles like 101 Important Dates in History. How artificial! I mean, maybe there were only 97 most important dates. One of my pet peeves.)

Today I found a new poem to add to the list. I give you “Not They Who Soar,” by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

Not they who soar, but they who plod
Their rugged way, unhelped, to God
Are heroes; they who higher fare,
And, flying, fan the upper air,
Miss all the toil that hugs the sod.
'Tis they whose backs have felt the rod,
Whose feet have pressed the path unshod,
May smile upon defeated care,
Not they who soar.

High up there are no thorns to prod,
Nor boulders lurking 'neath the clod
To turn the keenness of the share,
For flight is ever free and rare;
But heroes they the soil who've trod,
Not they who soar!